Uncomfortable
by Firestar9mm
Summary: Calleigh and Horatio are both quite uncomfortable...


**Author's Introduction:**

_This_ story came completely out of left field. You'd think I would have seen it coming, since I spend a lot of time out there.

One thing I've learned in life is that no matter what you're doing or trying to do, you need to learn to use whatever you've got lying around. You never know.

That was what I did with my new pair of shoes on Monday. It turned into this:

**

* * *

Uncomfortable**

the first CSI: Miami fic ever written or posted by me, completely by accident

* * *

Calleigh's feet hurt.

She hadn't moved in hours—her back was bent over a microscope, her eyes were weary, and shell casings had been her only company for most of shift—but it was her feet that were killing her. The reason for this was obvious even if you weren't a criminalist—she'd trapped her tootsies in a pair of strappy black slides with spikes as high as candy canes. Now the straps were cutting into her feet and the pressure on her heels was nearing unbearable.

_File these under "it sounded like a good idea at the time"_, Calleigh thought, hopping off her chair to take a break.

In the Miami Dade Crime Lab, taking a break sometimes meant you visited the morgue to interrogate one of Alexx's "patients". Calleigh passed Wolfe in the hall as she passed, trying to glide down the corridor and not put too much weight on her aching feet. She didn't fool him, though. Gliding effortlessly was pretty much impossible in spike heels.

"Have a good time last night?" Wolfe asked, arching a brow coolly.

"What makes you say that?" Calleigh asked, coming ungracefully to a halt and favoring her left leg.

"You're limping."

"Ha, ha." She shot him a squinchie with her eyes and continued her slow, painful way to the morgue.

Eric Delko was already in there, staring down at the cadaver with fervent single-mindedness. He gave her a polite nod as she advanced to the table in what she hoped was a casual walk. "How's our boy?" she asked.

"Not saying much," Alexx sighed, then addressed the cadaver. "You're a shy one, aren't you, baby?"

Calleigh often thought it was a shame that Alexx had such a good bedside manner. No one ever got to hear it.

"What's with you, Cal?" Delko asked, a frown creasing his brow. "You look upset."

"It's these darned shoes," Calleigh admitted, displaying one foot. "They're killing me."

Delko shook his head and snorted. "Women. I don't get it."

"They're cute," Alexx said of the shoes. Calleigh was grateful for the support, but the straps were a line of fire across her instep.

Delko snorted again. "You're crazy. You're going to suffer all day for 'cute'."

"They look nice," Calleigh said lamely.

Delko gave in this time and laughed, a deep, rich belly laugh. " 'They look nice'," he parroted in a squeak that Calleigh assumed was supposed to be her voice. " 'They cut my toes and give me blisters but they look nice'."

Calleigh turned to Alexx. "Help."

The coroner pointed her own foot, which was encased in a clean white sneaker. "Sorry, sugar."

Calleigh pouted briefly, then clomped her way back to her work station. Insult to injury, as she left the morgue she felt the first warm trickle of blood cut down the side of her foot.

* * *

She was back at the microscope—barefoot, now—when Horatio came in.

One of the many things she had always admired about him was that he was so very together. His clothes were always neat and pressed, and he never looked hurried. He always wore a suit coat no matter how oppressive the Miami heat was, and his ties were always perfectly knotted.

Which was why she was surprised when he loosened his tie as he came in. For some reason the movement excited her—it didn't really reveal that much more of him but somehow made him look as though he was ready to let go a little. Her tongue stuck suddenly in her mouth.

"How's it going with those shell casings?" he asked, leaning against her desk.

Calleigh was still distracted by the triangle of skin above the loosened tie. Shell casing? What was that?

"Oh. Um. It's slow. I haven't gotten any hits yet." Her answer sounded stupid to her own ears; she could only imagine how it sounded to his.

"You'll get it," he murmured. "You always do."

As he spoke, he turned to glance out into the hallway, and Calleigh could see a wrinkled indentation where his suit jacket was beginning to melt over his shoulder holster. And then without warning the jacket dropped to the bend of his elbows, like a striptease, and she saw the straps cutting across his pale dress shirt. Words faded into impossibility.

He must have felt the heat of her gaze on his back because he turned to face her before sliding the jacket the rest of the way off. "Sorry," he said, looking a little sheepish—a rarity for Horatio "I'm Far Too Cool For You" Caine. "This holster is killing me."

Calleigh's tongue wanted to be put to better use than words, but she managed to seize a fact and turn it into innuendo. "It's too tight. Maybe you should get an inner-pants holster." The implications of that statement hissed deliciously between them.

He flushed almost imperceptibly. "I like the way this one looks," he said. "It's…cool."

Calleigh glanced down at her mangled feet and the vicious shoes that were sitting patiently beneath her desk.

"I like that smile," Horatio murmured. "What's got you so happy?"

She dimpled at him, shrugging. "Oh…nothing."

**Author's Notes:**

Like I said, it came out of the deep blue nowhere. Support the fever dream of Horatio/Calleigh. **(grins**.)

This was fun to write. I like H and Calleigh—they're no Grissom and Sara, but it's like, you know, live in Vegas, vacation in Miami. (**smiles again**.) I'm having a great time with these.


End file.
